Through the Looking Glass
by broomclosetkink
Summary: Alice steps through the Looking Glass and into Tarrant Hightopp's workroom. Not so carefully spewed Outlandish curses insure the Looking Glass is offended to the point it refuses to take Alice home.
1. Chapter 1

**Story: Through the Looking Glass ****  
****Rating: R ****  
****Genre(s): Romance, Smut (Is smut a genre? Hmm…)****  
****Summary: Alice steps through the Looking Glass and into Tarrant Hightopp's workroom. Not so carefully spewed Outlandish curses insure the Looking Glass is offended to the point it refuses to take Alice home. ****  
****Notes: Oh, cliché, how I love you. First attempt at AiW fanfic, so please, don't be too brutal. Second half coming soon! (Second half meaning Smut Coming Soon!) Also, lamest title ever…well, I've never been good with titles, so you will have to forgive it, I suppose.**

The moon is high in the sky, looking rather benevolent and shimmering among glittering starry tea trays and whisping clouds, when Alice of Aboveground – Champion of the White Queen herself! – tumbles out of the rather large looking glass of Tarrant Hightopp's workroom. She gives a great noise of indignation when her foot catches on the rather smaller edge of her own looking glass, sending her tumbling bottom over tea kettle, straight to the floor in a flurry of petticoats, chaste white bloomers, and a good deal of lace. Tarrant pauses absolutely in his late night work, mouth agape, neon green eyes wide in shock as he takes the sight in. It isn't so much that Alice had come through the looking glass, as that was nothing new or odd or strange; she came by quite often, really, several times a week for tea and chats and long visits to catch upon Underworld gossip…

She always came at proper sorts of times, though. Mornings and afternoons and early evenings (at least, Tarrant assumes it was proper times; Time has been snubbing him quite harshly for several years, and he is often out of sorts when it came to that subject), but never at _night_. And it is clearly night, night _night_, with a large moon and stars and evening birds calling out. Sweet Earl Gray, Alice was in his rooms, limbs flailing, cursing vividly in words he hadn't imagined she knew, and he could see her pretty bloomers. He desperately wants to stammer, but was unable even to do that.

He simply gapes – gawks – goggles –

She bounds to her feet after a moment, positively flouncing as she glares darkly at his mirror, and spat several Outlandish curses. Tarrant, just for good measure, stares a bit more, worried that what little bit of reality was still clinging to Underworld by the skin of it's teeth finally gave up and ran away. And then he giggles, loudly, a bit hysterically – because it seems the thing to do really.

"Alice," he gestures with both a thimbled finger and pair of scissors, "I wasn't aware you – really, you shouldn't – that's quite the vocabulary you've picked up. I like words, you know, all sorts, but I _wasn't_ aware that _you_ were aware of quite so many! You're going to hurt the looking glass's feelings, going on like that, and then you'll have to stay here as it won't let you through." The thought cheers him, very quickly, and he grins at her. Possibly a bit madly, but that's to be expected. What is also expected is Alice to laugh, to twirl around and give him a right proper Alice look. Amused, a bit flustered, and full of teasing muchness.

She was, apparently, not going about with what was expected of her, though. Which really, Tarrant has to muse, _was_ expected of her. Not doing what was expected of her, that is.

"Fine!" She nearly shouts, waving her hands through the air as she flounces a circle and turns viciously angry eyes on him. "I don't want to go back! I hope it doesn't let me back through!"

Tarrant forces himself, by sheer will and a carefully applied stab of the point of his scissors to his forearm, not to cheer.

"Well then!" He beams happily at her, dropping the scissors and a stretch of fine silk he'd been holding, clapping his hands together as he moved around his workbench. "Not wanting to go back? I can't say as I blame you, Alice, Underland is much nicer then Aboveland. MicTwisp tells the most awful stories about animals walking about without a stitch to them, doing their shukrm right in front of _everyone_. I may be mad, you know, but I can't imagine staying in place like _that_."

"Who cares about the animals?" Alice demands, propping her hands on her slender hips (slender hips that Tarrant wishes he hadn't noticed, because they reminded him of the fact she wasn't wearing shoes – what pretty little toes, his Alice had – or stockings, just stretches of bare skin with only thin bloomers to cover her modesty – and oh, oh my -), jutting her stubborn chin out. "It's the people, Hatter! The people are – they are just – _ugh_!"

"Ugh?" He repeated a bit faintly, "In what manner?"

Alice gives a large, gusting sigh, shaking her head and spreading her hands. The smile that pulls at her lips was obviously forced; the coloring of her cheeks obviously a by-product of embarrassment.

"Forget I said a thing," she moves forward, laughing – not entirely forced, that one – "And _please_ forgive the way I acted! I had an awful time of it, Hatter, and I…I just thought you might want some company. For tea. It's very late, though, isn't it? I'm sorry. You're working, and I'm bothering you."

"Tea," he says firmly, "Is never a bother. Honestly, Alice, where you get your mad ideas, I'll never know." He gives her a stern sort of look – they collapse into a fit of giggles, before he's gesturing her towards his little table, where there is always hot tea waiting on hand. He pours for them both, adds three sugars and a dollop of milk to Alice's cup before hand it over. He mentally recounts every hat he's ever made – starting from the time before he could actually walk on his own – to keep himself from falling apart at the knowledge that Alice in his workroom past mooneve. In his workroom past mooneve, alone with him, after having sought him out – him alone! – for company and tea. Without shoes or stockings, and – _bloomers_ –

Blast! Now he's stuck on _B_ words, and most of them involving bodies. Which is also a _B_ word, and –

"I think," Alice says suddenly, a sullen, brooding look on her face, "That I despise men."

Tarrant chokes on his tea so violently it stings his nose. _He's_ a man, and she despises men – and he doesn't think he can stop being a man, given all the dangling bits that go along with being male, and he's fond enough of them he doesn't want to be rid of them, not even for Alice. If he must he _must_, though; admittedly, it would completely end all the things he thinks about Alice, doing to Alice, Alice doing to _him_. Well, not the thinking. But the hope of actual action would be gone, and how would _he_ –

"_What_?"

"Most men," she amended to his relief, sending him a great, fluttering sort of smile and another flush. Tarrant can't help but flop, boneless, in his chair, though it was only an extreme act of willpower that he had previously been unaware of possessing that keeps him from patting his male bits just to assure them that now everything is okay, and nothing is going _anywhere_ and – and thank Green Tea, he'd been very worried for a moment.

"Aboveland men, at least," Alice continues, lips turning down again, sitting her tea on it's saucer on the table, and Tarrant's mind went off on the path she was only starting to wander down. In his workroom after mooneve, alone with him, without stockings or shoes; angry enough to make good use of the Outlandish curses she'd picked up from being around – well, himself – when he had a fit, like That One Time when Chess thought it would be perfectly hysterical to play Take the Hat for several hours straight. Yes, Alice had probably learned all her best Outlandish swears from _that_ day, he had to admit, probably about the time Tarrant had gotten stuck in the tree and an invisible Chess and his floating hat were just out of reach. He'd been fairly certain that Chess had been Futterwackening, despite lack of visibility; no where nearly as well as Tarrant could manage it, but Futterwacken he did, all the same, in sheer glee of tormenting poor Tarrant within a fingernail of his misty mind.

Frumious _cat_…

Alice in his workroom, after mooneve, alone with him, without stocking or shoes; angry enough to make good use of the Outlandish curses she'd picked up from himself – likely from That One Day – and, informing him she despised _most men_. Most men meaning Aboveland men, and his bits and bobbins were safe (thank you, thimbles!), and it all led up to a conclusion that Tarrant wasn't too fond to think of.

He refuses – _refuses_! – to say a single word, and tips his head down. The brim of his hat and the spill of his bright hair hide his eyes, which he's fairly sure are not green or blue or neon of some sort, but piercing and yellow and orange and _hateful_.

"They think," Alice broke through the rapid pace of his thoughts, drawing his eyes towards her from under the shadows of his hat brim while his fingers curl so tightly on his teacup he is surprised it wasn't shouting in pain and close to cracking, "That if there is an unmarried young woman within twenty feet of them, that they have automatic rights. Well, they don't! I wish I could warn them, really. 'I slayed a Jabberwocky, son,' I'd tell them, 'And mind yourself, or it'll be off with _your_ head, next!' Vorpal sword or _no_!"

Tarrant takes three very deep breathes, each of them longer then the last. The next thing he knows there is china on the floor, tea on the ceiling and wall _and_ floor, and he is kneeling before Alice with his hands on her skirt and petticoat and bloomer (dear _thimbles_, bloomers…) clad knees. Her eyes are great and glimmering and impossibly blue, her mouth rather agape and the flush on her cheeks nearly as bright as his hair.

"_Names_," he heard himself demanding, "Ye give me names, an'I proomis, I _proomis_, ye'll ne'r have to see 'em_ again_!"

The ideas his mad, mad mind have brought forth are nearly too much for him to bear. His Alice, his free, pretty Alice; always without stockings or corset, with illy lace shoes and most often bare toes and ankles. If they – if they touched her, hurt her, so much as _breathed_ on her, he will rip them all –

"Now, Hatter," Alice gives him the very careful smile of an Alice who has only just realized she has pushed the Mad Hatter into a fierce rage, reaching out to pat his cheek with light fingertips. "Calm down. I'm not hurt, I promise! You think a few stupid men with stupid little ideas could hurt the Champion of the White Queen?"

Tarrant _wants_, _badly_, to tell her that men can hurt women in all sorts of ways. And if they dare to hurt his Alice in any way, but most certainly the ways he would like make her think kindly of (with him, not them, naturally), he really _will_ kill them. Without pause. Instead he grunts, and narrows a glare on her. She crinkles her nose, and sighs once, before going about patting his cheeks a bit more.

"I have to tell you what's happened, now, don't I? You're expecting the worst. It wasn't the worst! He just…he's an idiot, Lowell, an absolute idiot! Well, if he weren't married to my sister, I promise, I _would_ show him what the White Queen's Champion is all about. As it is, I showed him enough. Thank you's are in order for all your training. I doubt he'll be walking well for several days."

The sane part of Tarrant – which is Tarrant before the mercury and Jabberwocky and rebellion – is, for once, joining in the clamor of bloodlust. He is, as a matter of fact, waving a hatpin in a most deadly fashion and thinking about the use of crumpets as torture. It is, Tarrant-as-a-whole decides, a most clever sort of torture, and Thackery has just the right recipe to make it all possible. He'll speak to Thackery as soon as he's done here about getting said crumpets. Dead useful, March Hares are. Literally, in some cases.

"_Wot_," he says as clearly as he _possibly_ can, in his current state, "_Happened_?"

"Dear," Alice mutters at him, "Oh, _dear_. Now, Hatter – _Tarrant_ – I really think you ought to calm down a bit."

That sane part of him lets go of the hatpin, develops a nosebleed, and faints dead away. _Tarrant_, she called him, not Hatter or Mad or Mad Hatter or Royal Hatter. Just Tarrant. He thinks he giggled. A bit. Possibly. Not conducive to slaying, giggling, but oh well.

"See, now? There's a laugh. I'm fine, I promise."

"Alice," he glares again, stifling the giggles, "Wot happened?"

"Well, you _know_ Lowell. Not _really_, but I have spoken of him. He was being Lowell, and I took care of it. So really, there's no need for poking him with hatpins, and certainly no need for you broadsword." Tarrant has to wonder at how well she knows him, at least for a moment. Until he was back on the path of Bad Things and Alice's bloomers (which, for the first time _ever_, is not as wonderful a thought as they have previously been), and that slurvish Lowell.

"_Alice_!" Something in his tone, his eyes, the twist of his lips and glimmer of his teeth must have finally convinced her to be out with the tale, and end the torture of skirting the subject.

"We had a ball this evening." She sniffs once, suddenly prim, eyes darting to the side. It explains the excess of lace and the fine stitching of her bloomers.

_Blasted bloomers_!

It explains the excess of lace and fine seaming on _all her clothing_, even the ones he shouldn't have seen. Much safer, that. Things he shouldn't have seen. _Bloomers_, that bleeding Tarrant in his head gurgles, before fainting again.

"We had a ball," she elaborates at his growl, "And Lowell got a bit into his cups. Poor Margaret's quite far along into her pregnancy, very uncomfortable, so she says. Well, I suppose it has – at least, according to Lowell – he's a _beast_, really…" She pauses, and takes a deep breath before plunging onwards. "I suppose it has made things of a marital nature a bit difficult. Meaning Margaret's pregnant and doesn't care a bit for _it_, now."

Tarrant tastes blood far before he realizes he's bit his cheek.

"It was bloody boring affair," Alice is rambling, he notes, he supposes from nerves, "To celebrate my homecoming, such as it is. And Lowell got into his cups, too much wine, and caught me in the garden having a conversation with the peonies. He said some very uncalled for things, and did some very uncalled for things, and I kicked him so hard that I really don't think they'll be any other children after Margaret has this baby."

"_Wot_?" Tarrant didn't realize he was shouting until Alice flinched backwards, patting his cheeks a bit more strongly, now. His chest is so tight he can hardly breathe, and he wants – more then anything – to find this Lowell and set the bloody – "_Wot happened, Alice_?"

"He kissed me," Alice blurted, looking a bit shamed and very angry and entirely stubborn. "Married to my sister, and he kissed me! Told me I was going to become an old maid, and it was his duty as a _loving brother-in-law_ to make sure I didn't miss out on _everything_, and if I was going to go around without my stockings then it meant I really wanted him to. I don't! They're like codfish, stockings, and I just don't like them. So I – so I kicked him, and left, and it's over, now. The tea is getting cold, Tarrant, shouldn't we finish it? Or maybe I should go home. I've kept you away from your work long enough, haven't I?"

"_Nae_!" Tarrant _knows_ he's shouting this time, and he really – _really_ – doesn't care. "Nae, ye willna go back _there_, wi' tha' – _tha' _–"

His mind, he fears, is permanently broken at this juncture.

"_How di' he know ye weren't wearin' stockin's?"_ Alice gives him very large, very guilty eyes.

"Bugger," she mutters, in a very un-Alice fashion. "_Now_," she says in that careful sort of voice, "_Tarrant_, I think you should calm down. Just a bit."

He twitches _violently_. And then – then he lunged.

* * *

Tarrant stares at Alice for what feels like an eternity. He can still taste her on his lips, her tongue against his (his tongue that had traced her lips, dipped inside, tasted the sweetness of her mouth), his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. He almost presses his hand over it, to make sure it doesn't slip between his rips, rip through flesh, and flop helpless at her feet, much as he already is, kneeling before her like a startled supplicant. Her hand is hovering over her mouth, her eyes wide, her cheeks flushed. Not just her cheeks, no; her cheeks, her throat, that long, lovely line descending to her bodice and the small swell of her chest which is modestly covered but still taunting him horrible.

He has just – yes, he is _sure_ that he has just kissed his Alice. Stolen her kiss like that slurvish Lowell stole her kiss, and now she really _is_ going to despise him.

"I -" He gasps on the word, blinking large eyes at her, "I'm sorry! I didn't – I did – but I didn't _mean_ -"

"Different," Alice says softly, maybe a bit wonderingly, pressing her fingertips to her lips before dropping her hand. He nearly dies when her tongue darts out, sweeps the lingering remains of his kiss and madness and passion from her mouth, draws it inside her body and tastes it again. "Much different from before."

"Different?" He gasps the word, hands trembling violently; palms on her knees, fingers on her thighs, thumbs nearly crying because they are so near her hem and it would take little to slip down, lift it up, find skin –

"Different," she said strongly, and visibly rallying her muchness all around her, "Better. Much better."

"_Better_?"

"Better," her tone is firm, and she nods, as though now nothing will change this new opinion. "Much better."

Tarrant finds himself unable to speak past the swelling of love and hope and lust and so many other things that he, a collector of words, cannot hope to name. And he doesn't _have_ to, he finds, because Alice is leaning towards him, her breath fluttering – warm and moist – on the skin of his cheeks, his nose, his neck. Her hair is falling forward, touching him gently, like a lover, and then her mouth is at his, and she is _kissing him_. Not timidly, no, not his Alice; softly, though, because it's obvious she's had few kisses before this, maybe only the two – one wrongly stolen and one she didn't mind having taken, it seems.

She kisses him so sweetly that it is almost painful. He lets out a noise – deep and rough, from the depths of his stomach that rolls out of his chest like the snarling of the Bandersnatch – and his hands leave her legs. He flicks his thimble from his finger, and that hand he curls and tangles in her fair hair. The other cups her neck, thumb stroking up and down before it presses against the tender skin under her chin, pressing upwards as he rocks forward, into an awkward stance hovering on his toes so he is _just so_ above her.

She moans, and he deepens the kiss, and finds himself in the sweetest madness he has ever, _ever_ known.

He lurches upright, bends to keep his mouth on Alice's. He can't stand the thought that anyone, anyone, touched her before; he is dying because she is touching _him_, allowing him to touch _her_, and it is _blessed_. Tarrant finds himself with his knee on the edge of the chair, the leg he stood on bent. He was pressing her against the back of the chair, hand around her neck and another in her hair; and her hands were in his hair, his neck, trailing fingertips over his shoulders before one darted out and brushed against his ear.

He thinks he will die, and he can't say that he'd mind.

"Alice," he groans her name against soft lips and wet tongue, before moving his mouth to her jaw, where tastes the flesh there. Alice shivers, shudders, and curls her fingers into the shoulders of his jacket and refuses to release him. "_Alice_," he groans when his teeth scrape her neck, and she gives a trembling noise that sounds very, very much like _My Hatter_…

It takes an effort of will and sanity that Tarrant did not know he still possessed to find himself halfway across his workroom, struggling for air. He knots his hands together behind his back, rocking back and forth, torn between the desire to fling himself back onto his sweet Alice and to do the Right Thing. The Right Thing being keep away and keep her chaste, at least a while, because he has no doubts that if later on – later on, if there have been further kisses, and she asks for _more _then that – then he will give into her. But one stolen kiss from her, and another happily taken kiss from himself…it doesn't mean that the time is right to rip her fine seams and sink into her body.

Alice trembles with every breath she takes. Her eyes are hazy with desire, with_ lust_, and she looks right at him with that glorious gaze. Tarrant fears he'll hurt her, in his desire, for it is stronger even then his madness. And truly, he hadn't know that anything was stronger then _that_.

"Perhaps," he finds himself saying, "Ye _shoul'_ leave, my Alice."

She gives him a wounded, heartbroken look, and captures her lower lip between her white teeth. Tarrant's knees knock together so viciously that he'll be surprised if she never admits to hearing it.

"I dinna wan' ye to," he insists rather desperately, "As I _wan'_ ye, Alice, verra _badly_. But ye – we – I dinna wan' to hurt ye, force ye -"

"Tarrant," Alice says with the strangest, warmest smile he's ever been graced with, "You are the most wonderful man I've ever known."

His resolve begins to shake. But he keeps himself back as she stands, toys with her hair, smoothes her skirts for a moment. Alice shoots him a look that is hot and startled and very curious; he wants, more then anything, to drag her to the bed in the room next door, and answer her questions as to what _could_ happen between them with his hands and lips and tongue and –

"I should leave," she admits on a sigh, flushing again, "You're right. But I – can I come back? Tomorrow?"

"_Aye_!" He is as startled by his shout as Alice is. She grins at him, though, and he wavers a few steps forward. "Och – aye, my Alice, _anyt'me ye wan'!_"

"And then we…" Alice flamed brightly, struggling for words, before she visibly rallied her muchness about her. She gave him a twinkling sort of look, something sly and teasing and very hopeful. "Will there be more kisses, Tarrant?"

He is _this close_ – _this close, he swears – _to fainting. Or ravishing her. Or ravishing her, and then fainting. If he could do both at once, he would. Unfortunately, it isn't an option.

"As long as ye wan' 'em," he assures her roughly, "Aye."

She grins, before turning and moving in a very gay, pleased fashion towards the looking glass. She pauses, one hand on the frame, chin nearly touching her shoulder.

"Goodnight, Hatter."

"Fairfarren," he manages to grit out, "My Alice."

So used to moving easily, freely through the looking glasses, Alice held not a hint of hesitation when she moved towards the smooth surface. And that was why her head smacked into the smooth glass quite hard, and she gave a shout before toppling backwards. She landed on her body, hands pressed to her head, giving the looking glass the sort of look that suggested she couldn't believe what had just happened.

"_And then you'll have to stay here,"_ Tarrant recalled telling her, _"As it won't let you through."_

Tarrant blinked at her sprawled form, before twitching. Violently.

"You were right," Alice tells him after a _long_ time sitting on the floor, looking torn between worry and delight, "I shouldn't have said cruel things to the looking glass. I can't go back through. It does look as though we'll be spending the rest of the evening together. I _know_ Mirana likes to be sunshine and rainbows during the day, but I'd rather go three rounds with a Jabberwocky then wake her up in the middle of the night. She's not very _nice_ when that happens."

"Nae," Tarrant says very softly, "She is'na."

After Alice finds her feet, they stare at each for a very long time. And then, finally, Tarrant extends one trembling hand towards the seat she had sat in before. (Sat in, been kissed in; the seat he had caged her in with his knee between her thighs, his mouth on hers _oh sweet silver serving set_…)

"More tea, Alice?" She grins, and Tarrant feels rather doomed. He doesn't know if it's a good thing, or not.


	2. Chapter Two

**Story: Through the Looking Glass**

**Rating: M**

**Genre(s): Romance**

**Summary: Alice steps through the Looking Glass and into Tarrant Hightopp's workroom. Not so carefully spewed Outlandish curses insure the Looking Glass is offended to the point it refuses to take Alice home. ****  
Notes: Yeah, well, this was only going to be two parts. But now there's going to be three – so one more after this, luvs. Meanwhile, I'm not sure how I feel about this bit…still feeling out the characters, here, so don't be too cruel if it's awful. **

_Alice is in my bed_, Tarrant can't keep from reminding himself on an endless loop. _Alice in my bed, head on my pillow, under my sheets. Alice is in my bed, sleeping and warm and right-proper-Alice in right-proper-Tarrant's bed. _He simply doesn't know _what_ to do with himself. He knows what he wants to do, several things he wants to do; the vast majority of them are things that he is positive would get him banished to the Outlands if he were ever to mention even one of them in public. He wants to strip and crawl in the bed with her, push her down against the pillows and kiss her until they have only one breath, and it is shared and theirs and _them_. He wants to taste every inch of her skin; behind her knees, the insides of her elbows, the dip of her navel. He wants to sink inside her until it is impossible to say where Alice starts and Tarrant ends.

He wants to hold her until dawn, have her warm and soft and sweet curled against him. Her head on his chest, their legs tangled together. He wants the sun to rise on them both, and then he wants to wake her with the kisses. He wants, more then anything, to have her look at him with sleepy eyes and a satisfied smile and to tell him, "Good morning, my Tarrant," and then, "I _love_ you, my Tarrant."

He drops the roll of delicate lace he was working with, breath ragged as he pressed his bandaged hands over his face. Just the _thought_ of that, of Alice saying that – oh – it is better then tea, and hats, and any rebellion.

As much as he wants it, though, he knows he doesn't dare go into his room - his room where his golden Alice is sleeping. No, because Alice's are to be treated Right, and molesting an Alice in the dead of night is not Right. Well, perhaps it _is_ Right, but not yet. It is Almost Right, and Will Be Right, Eventually.

Tea, he decides, he needs a nice white tea to calm himself down. He'll have a cuppa, and then he'll go about doing what he does best; or at least, _one_ of the things he does best. He will make hats, and do his very best not to contemplate Alice sleeping in his bed. And in the morning he will kiss her – because there is no force in Underland strong enough to keep him from taking a dawn bright kiss from Alice when she wakes and comes to his workroom – before they go to Mirana and request a bit of help with the offended looking glass. And _then_ he'll make a plan, a right good plan, a plan to woo Alice. He isn't entirely sure how one goes about wooing, not anymore. Oh, when he was a young Hightopp, before the mercury had _really_ set in (and before the destruction of his Clan), he had been no stranger to lasses. Or lasses lips, or thighs, or toes, upon occasion.

But lasses weren't _Alice_. And it had been several years. What if things had changed? He wasn't sure how they could have, but what if they _had_. What if, for example, it was no longer practice to –

"Tarrant?" Having been in the midst of pouring himself a cup of tea, Tarrant jerks violently at the sound of Alice's voice, and splashes a good deal of very hot Darjeeling White Tea across his shirt front. He hisses as it sinks through the fabric and burns the flesh of his stomach, hoping twice before he spins around, one hand busy holding his shirt away from his flesh. And then it doesn't matter that he is burnt, or his shirt is tea splattered, or even that his fingers have gone numb and a nearly full pot of tea has just crashed to the floor.

Alice is standing in his workroom in her chemise. Her soft, white chemise. Except she's not _only_ wearing that chemise; no, she is wearing his dressing gown as well. It is old, worn at the elbows and hems, worn from many nights and mornings and even a few afternoons of use. It drags the ground behind Alice, and the sleeves dip down, covering her fingertips.

Alice is wearing a chemise and his dressing gown (and has just, he recalls a bit hysterically, risen from his bed), and Tarrant isn't sure that Right and Wrong matter anymore.

"I'm sorry!" Alice rushes forward, hands stretching out, batting his fingers away to – _thimbles, bobbins, and silk thread_, she is trying to _kill him_ – to tug his shirt from his trousers. His coat and waistcoat and cravat are gone, and so it is _only_ his shirt that is between Alice hands and his flesh. He can't even stop her! (Admittedly, he isn't sure he wants to stop her. No, strike that, he is _positive_ he doesn't want to stop her.) She tugs until it is entirely loose, and then she uses one hand to keep the wet fabric from his skin, while the other goes about unbuttoning his shirt.

"Oh, Tarrant," she says on a bit of sigh, "I am sorry. Here, let me see. Are you badly burnt?"

He says something that sounds more like, "Nuughling," then anything else. He isn't sure what _Nuughling_ means, but he suspects it can best be translated to _Alice is taking my shirt off, Alice is taking my shirt off; I'm going to faint, I'm going to pin her to the floor, I'm going to pin her to the floor and THEN faint, because Alice is taking my shirt off_! What a nice word, he has to think for a moment, only a few letters spoken in a formless grunt to convey so much!

He comes back to himself to find that his shirt is hanging open on his shoulders, framing the pale, sickly skin of his stomach and chest. He wants to cover himself, because Alice shouldn't see such – such _awfulness_, such proof that he is what is called; a Mad Hatter, broken by war and mercury. He wants to toss her over his shoulder, take her back to his bed, and show her why Underland father's often warned their daughters away from the handsome Hightopp men. He also wants, he finds, to bend and take in the scent of her hair. He is, he finally admits, terribly conflicted. And so he does nothing.

Alice eyes him for a very long moment. He watches as her gaze roams over his flesh, until her cheeks are red, and her tongue is darting out to wet her lips. Her pupils grow large, until they are dark, with only a ring of bright blue left. He balls his hands into tight, tight fists to keep himself from doing – he doesn't know what. Something. Anything, anything other then standing there, watching her look at him and _enjoying_ the sight of his body.

Her fingertips graze the soft red hair on his stomach, the line that disappears under the waistband of his trousers, and they both jerk in reaction. He gives a noise – a snarl, a whimper, a groan; he isn't sure, he only knows it leaves his throat – and then she is spreading her hands on his stomach, framing the red, irritated skin.

"It's not bad," she says, and he is _thankful_ to hear that her voice is trembling. At least he isn't the only one affected by what is happening. "You should be fine, I think. Do you want me to get a wet cloth, though? To ease the sting?"

"Nae," he manages to get out, shaking his head once, unable to remove his gaze from her pink face. "Tis fine, Alice."

"Okay," she gives him a weak, fluttering sort of smile, before she strokes his stomach. Just once, lightly, with her right hand. He bites his cheek, again, to keep from groaning aloud; she exhales loudly, swallows visibly, and steps back. She folds her arms across her chest, under her little breasts (badly covered by that chemise; he could see the shadows of her pink nipples, and he – he couldn't – she was trying to _kill him_ -), and does her best to smile.

"Tarrant?"

He doesn't trust himself to speak, so he simply jerks his eyes upwards and meets her gaze.

"I can talk to you, can't I? I mean…about anything? And you won't – I mean, we are good enough…friends, that we can speak freely?"

He nods, and she _beams_ at him. He beams back, because when Alice is happy, the world is right. And the relief and happiness in her eyes is enough to make his knees weak again.

"I just…want you to know, I don't go around kissing men. Normally. Actually, I don't _ever_ go around kissing men. Lowell kissed me, I didn't kiss him. And you kissed me. But I kissed you, as well, and…" she trails off, brow furrowing before she is tossing her hands the air. "I really am mucking this up, aren't I? Let me try again.

"Alright," she says almost sternly, chin taking on a stubborn setting. "What I am attempting to say, Tarrant, is that I don't normally kiss men. Because young women don't go around kissing men willy-nilly. Well, not normally. Some do. _I_ don't. But I have thought about kissing you. Since, well, even before I started coming back to Underland for visits. And…and I wouldn't kiss or – or touch – or, well, do _that_ sort of _thing_ with a man who I didn't…care for. In a manner that is more then friends." She pauses, burrow furrowing. "Am I making sense, Tarrant?"

"Aye," he says, and the gruffness of his voice would have shocked him, had he not been so focused on Alice. Alice and her chemise and his dressing gown, Alice in his dressing gown and what she had just said. _In a manner more then friends_, she said, _more then friends_. More then friends was…

"Well," he watches Alice swallow, and give him a nod, "I just wanted to tell you that. I couldn't sleep, for it. I just wanted you to know that. So you didn't think that…that I don't…that I do that often. Because I don't. But I'm…I'm willing to. With you."

"Wi'h me?" Tarrant clinches his jaw and his hands, muscles bunching and tightening as he shudders. _With you_, she says, _with you_ – "S'at so, my Alice?"

"Yes," her voice is whispery, breathless. It makes him take a step forward, just one – one foot, moving one step, and that _one step_ makes her breathing speed up. "With you."

"Jus' kisses?" he finds himself asking, releasing his fists, stretching his fingers only to ball them back up again as he draws in a deep breath that is heavily scented with Alice and Alice lust and – "S'at it, my Alice? Jus' kisses?" His eyes narrow in on her as she licks her lips, takes a shallow, trembling breath, and wavers a step forward, as he just had.

"No," she admits so softly, just a bare brush of her voice, and it makes the hairs on his stomach and arms and the back of his neck stand on end. "Not just kisses."

"Wot else?" His voice, Tarrant hears, is little more then a growl. He takes another step, and then another, until the warmth of her body is wafting forward, warming his bare skin. He watches her with heavily lidded eyes as he takes the thimble from his finger (after having spent several minutes on hands and knees after he'd sent her to bed earlier, attempting to find it on the floor), and places it in his pocket. He tugs off his fingerless gloves, and they follow the thimble to his pocket. She watches, her chest moving rapidly, eyes locked on the motions, as though it was the most erotic thing she had ever seen to watch him begin unraveling the bandages from his fingers. "Wot else are ye willin' to do wi'h me, Alice? Wot else di' ye think abo't doin' wi'h me?"

He wants – no, he _needs_ – to hear her say more. If she admits to wanting him, of wanting more then kisses – more then what he had already taken from her – then it is Right. And if it is Right, then there is no reason in the world for him not to reach out, push his dressing gown off her body. Watch it puddle on the floor before he kisses her neck, tugs the ribbon holding her chemise closed and begins learning the softness of her skin.

"I…" Tarrant watches as Alice closes her eyes, draws in a deep breath and lets it out in one great whoosh. She is blushing, vividly, and he finds it nearly irresistible. "I think a lot of things."

"Wot _thin's_, my Alice?"

"Touching –" she admits, and then visibly flounders. Tarrant takes pity on her, because he knows, he _understands_ that there has been no one else before him (and he feels so blessed by this, that she is offering herself in such a way to him, only him), and so he moves even closer to her. He takes her hand after his own are completely bare and the bandages are tucked in his pocket with gloves and thimble, strokes his fingertips against her across her palm. He gives her a rather feral sort of smile when she gives a whimpering sort of noise at that bare, fleeting touch, and he can't wait to make her moan, make her beg, make her scream. To drink those sounds, those whimpers, those cries in with his mouth, trace them with his tongue as they fall from her lips.

"Where?" He asks thickly, as he uses his other hand to wrap her fingers around his palm. "Show me, my Alice."

She closes her eyes, blushing brightly; but she tightens the grip he has forced her to take on his hand, and guides said hand upwards. She presses it, flat against her chest, above the swell of her breasts. They both let out shaking breaths, and Tarrant flexes his fingers, rubs calloused fingertips against her soft skin. Her mouth drops open, her eyes flicker frantically behind her eyelids, and Tarrant watches her, nearly unable to breath as he drags his hand down. Down until he is palming her breast, and under the thin linen covering her, her nipple is hard against his palm.

She gasps – he groans. Her fingers go limp; her eyes flutter open to watch his face as he moves his hand farther down, leaving her grasp behind. He circles a thumb around her nipple, watches as lust paints roses on her cheeks, darkens her eyes. He leans forward, brushes his nose against her cheek and takes in her warm scent as though it is all he will ever need to live again.

"_This_?" He breathes, and Alice jerks under his touch and voice. "H're," he asks, "Righ' _h're_?"

"_Yes_!" Alice cries, her hands shooting out. One pressing against his chest – flesh to flesh, and it nearly breaks him – the other curling into the dangling fabric of his shirt. For a moment, neither of them moves; Tarrant is afraid if he does, he will go too quickly, push her too far, too far. At best she would forgive him for it – at worst, there would be misunderstandings.

"Alice," he says, before rubbing his nose along her cheek again, and then brushing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. "Alice, luv, I wan' ye."

"I know," Alice answers him, spreading her fingers a bit farther on his chest, pressing her palm against the skin that covers his heartbeat.

"No' jus' yer body," Tarrant can't help but stop and chuckle, eyes twinkling as he kissed her cheek, "I _do_ wan' yer body, my Alice, bu' no' _jus'_ yer body. I wan'…mornin's, Alice, mornin's wi'h ye. An' af'ernoon's, an' evenin's, an' _every day_, my Alice. I wan' a life wi'h ye. Even though…" he trails off for a moment, fear pulsing hot and strong through his veins. "Even though I'm broken, Alice, I want a life with you."

"Oh, Tarrant," he is horrified to see a tear slip down her cheek. One lone, glittering jewel of moisture, while more fill her pretty eyes and make them glow in the moon and candle light. He knows, then, he _knows_ that he shouldn't have said that. Alice is young and whole and terribly fresh; he is old, and scarred, and mad. He won't deny her the obvious lust she has for his body, for kisses and touches and broken gasps, but it still a shocking, painful realization to know that it spurned only by curiosity, and not by anything else. They are friends, he almost cries, they are friends and she trusts him, wants to learn. He will teach her, he decides a bit madly, he will teach her and maybe – maybe she will learn to love him, as he –

"I would like that," she smiles so suddenly that he is completely, entirely disarmed. More tears fall, dripping down her cheeks, the point of her chin; he lifts a hand and carefully, gently, brushes them away. "A life with you, I mean."

"Oh, Alice," he has to stop himself, stop and catch his breath, because he can't believe she has just said that. _I would like that_, he knows he heard say it, _A life with you_…he gasps a bit brokenly, bends and presses his face into her neck, curls his arms around her body and holds her close. She curls into him, soft and sweet, nuzzling her face into his shoulder, clinging to him as he clings to her. "_My_ Alice, my Alice…"

"My Hatter," she answers warmly, close to his ear, "My Tarrant."

He is _giddy_. If he didn't have Alice in his arms right then, he knows he would be doing a Futterwacken all over his workroom. As it stands, he doesn't want to let her go. Thimbles and bobbins, he can't believe his ears – well, he can, and he does, because even _if_ it's a by-product of his madness, he doesn't care. If this is madness, he's going to start _drinking_ mercury! Mercury tea; now, there's a thought. Probably tastes awful. Maybe he'll stick to proper tea, and jammy tea, and tea and scones. Yes. Probably the safest option.

"_Now_," he says as he fills his hands up with her soft hair, pulling back to give her smile that feels very much like a smirk, or possibly a leer – seeing as he can't see his face he can't be sure, and it has been several years since he's properly leered so it is only a possible leer, but it_ feels_ very much like a leer – watching as Alice give him a smile that is somewhat maidenly and yet oddly reminiscent of Chess's signature grin. That, he decides, holds a wealth of promise. "I believe, my Alice, tha' we were discussin' thin's an' touches."

"We were," Alice's smile widens, and her eyes twinkle like the brightest tea trays under the mischievous arch of her fair eyebrows. "You're absolutely correct about that."

"Thin's," he breathes softly, bare toes curling on the cool hardwood floor as he dips his head, tongue snaking out to run over the pink flesh of her bottom lip. She croons, softly, leans into his body, tangles her fingers, once again, in his loose shirt. He lets out a breath, dizzy from touch and taste, before kissing her chin, her jaw. "An' touches, an' here, wasinnit, Alice?" She flushes and wiggles and leans ever father towards him when one hand releases her hair, strokes her shoulder and arm, before moving back her chest. Her eyes flutter and her teeth latch onto her bottom lip as his thumb, heavy with calluses and old scars, finds the sensitive flesh of her nipple once more.

He grins, bending down and kissing her neck, the jut of her collarbone, before letting his hand drift upwards. His fingers toy, almost coy – a cat with a sting, a mouse with cheese – with the soft ribbon that is knotted and pulled into a bow, holding her chemise shut. He waits long enough for her to tell him _no_, but she doesn't; she only nods, just barely, the slightest rise and fall of her chin. He takes a firm hold on the ribbon, tugging once, head tipping to the side, watching as the bow and loose knot come undone.

Tarrant carefully smoothes the ribbons, and then the linen, until his hand his on warm, bare flesh, between her breasts. He can feel her heart pounding, it's rapid pace like drums or shattering china when Thackery is in a particularly good mood – _thump thump thump_ – and he pushes his hand to the right. Alice shrugs her shoulders three times; once, and it barely shifts. Twice, and it is only covering her sides, a third and it falls, slipping down her arms, tangling with the fabric of his open dressing gown. His open dressing gown holding her open chemise on her body – Tarrant shudders, hard, feeling certain that there has never been any sight more beautiful in the world.

He smoothes his hand up to her shoulder, until it is under both the dressing gown and chemise, and pushes. She wiggles a bit and drops her arms, and both fall. He can't help but take a step back, breath rattling in his chest as he takes in the sight of Alice, utterly and completely bare before him. Her skin is warm, pink and cream; she looks soft, she looks like she tastes of honey and wishes and May Day wine. He meets her gaze, can feel the wondering, gob smacked expression on his face; he is even _more_ enthralled with his Alice when she smiles at him rather winsomely, despite her blush.

"You know," she says in a voice that is husky with desire, like black tea with a hint of sugar and cream, "I had a dream rather like this once."

Tarrant feels sure that at _that_ particular admission, whatever blood he had remaining in his extremities has rushed elsewhere. Which is probably why he wavered dangerously on his feet, close to pitching forwards, to fainting from the stab of sheer _lust_ that lanced through his stomach, sharper then hatpins or broadswords.

"S'at so?" He dimly hears himself asking over the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears, swallowing hard to unstick his throat.

"Very so," Alice assures him, before stepping backwards, out of the puddle of fabric that had so recently covered her. She shoots him a grin that make even his _elbows_ tingle, before turning her back on him and swaying (a bit self-consciously, he can see it in the line of her back; but soon, he hopes, she'll parade about before him naked as a flower, without a care in the world of it) towards his chair. The large wingback he takes tea in every day, naps in quite often, and rather pathetically pines for her upon. (Though he won't have to pine anymore, that's a fact, and a bloody good one.)

His hat is perched on the table that's holding the remains of their tea. She picks it up, strokes the thick silk ribbon that adorns and dangles from in a manner that makes Tarrant sure he may die from pleasure before the night is over, before turning back to face him.

"I found interesting sorts of books when I traveled," she says as she lifts her arms settles his hat on her pretty head, "And I dreamt of you in a chair very much like this one. The one at the windmill, where we had tea parties; I wore your hat and you…" she trails off, licking her lips, apparently unable to finish the thought.

Tarrant is not upset to realize that much of her action is muchness and not comfort. She's young, and has never – no, she has never done _this_, and so he does understand. He's really too pleased to mind, because he's had this dream several times himself. Alice – naked Alice – no, Alice wearing nothing but his hat and a smile and red cheeks, sinking down to sit in his favorite, comfortable chair.

His shirt sails across the room, and it is catching sight of it landing on his sewing machine out of the corner of his eye that tells him he has tossed it away, as he doesn't recall moving to take it off. He does know he's walking forward, or perhaps stalking forward, highly intent on Alice and Alice flesh and Alice in _his hat_.

"_Naughty_," he breathes happily; grinning widely and madly and there went that leer again. He is getting the hang of things once more, isn't he?

As he had done earlier, his knee settles on the edge of the chair, between Alice's legs. He rests his hands against the back of the chair, leaning forward, caging her in as he kisses her. The brim of his hat gets in the way, but only bit, not nearly enough to convince him to take it off her. She gives a gasping, breathless noise that he pulls inside his mouth, rolls it around and swallows it, the muscles in his stomach and arms and back rippling as her hands skim up and down his sides. He pulls away from her mouth, grinning again as he hears her whimper, a wordless complaint that he has taken his mouth from hers.

He settles himself on his knees before her, takes her knees in his hands and opens her legs wide, so they are on either side of his body. She squeaks, and then giggles as he yanks, hard, dragging her forward. He lowers his head, tongue darting out, a growl rumbling out of his chest as she jumps and sighs and tangles her fingers in his wild hair when takes his first taste of her pink tipped breast. His mouth opens, pulling the flesh inside, and he is nearly undone when she curls her body into his, his name falling like a ragged prayer from her lips.

Tarrant keeps his grip on her knees, keeping her open, even as he scoots backwards a bit. He bends, nearly sobbing as his lips take in the taste of Alice's thigh for the first time.

"Tarrant!" She gasps, tugs on his hair, which is still firmly captured in her fingers, and he can hear the worry in her voice. "T-Tarrant, I don't think – I mean, I don't think you should – should um, do –"

"I shoul'," he moans thickly, biting at her pink skin, trembling as her hips lift from the chair in response. He runs his nose along the inside of her thigh, dragging in great gulps of air that are heavy with the scent of her musk. "Aye, I shoul', my Alice."

He yanks harder on her knees, and she is completely open before him. He cries out, and realizes that his desire for Alice is much like madness. In fact, desire and madness is the same thing; he cannot stop himself from acting, from moving forward and taking what he so desires. One hand leaves her knee, moving upward, skimming the satin soft skin of her thigh, until his bare fingers and tangling in the damp curls that are doing their best to shield her secrets from his eyes. He strokes them twice, tugs once and she gives a high noise of shock and pleasure, before his fingers dip down and find slick, wet skin. He _snarls_, because Alice is wet and wanting and waiting for him to take – he snarls and uses his fingers to open her as his head drops further and he nuzzles his nose into the wet heat.

Alice _sobs_ when his tongue leaves his mouth, darts quickly and several times over the solid bundle of nerves that has drawn his attention. When he pulls his tongue back into his mouth, he is light headed from her taste. It makes desire spiral from his toes to his fingertips, curling through his gut until he is so hard he actually begins ache.

Her fingers curl into his hair, takes a tight hold, and it is all the encouragement he needs. He tastes her again and again and again, holding her open with his fingers, kissing her with deep strokes. He sucks on her flesh, and she keens above him, hips rocking against his jaw, the leg that is not restrained by his hand on her knee curling upwards. He shifts his shoulders so she can hook it near his neck, drawing her even closer, moving the hand on her leg upwards, until he is gripping her hipbone, attempting to keep her in place.

Tarrant sits back after a moment, head tipping to side, licking his lips, moving his fingers until one is pressing – just barely, very lightly, a terribly shallow inch – into the opening of her body. He watches hungrily as Alice's eyes jerk wide before fluttering rapidly, her mouth working soundlessly at this new intrusion. He makes himself wait as long as he can, just to prove to himself that he _can_ wait, that every motion he makes, every act he bestows on Alice's body is not completely mindless, mad, or manic. He waits until he thinks it is finally long enough, that he's proven his point, at least to himself, before he pushes.

He trembles when he is knuckle deep in her body, her heat; his eyes want very badly to close, to relish the moment, but he keeps them open and watches Alice's face. She cries out, loudly, jerking violently. His thumb curls upwards, finds the little nub that he doubts she has encountered before and he has so recently tasted, rubbing tight, slow circles. She _wails_, knees jerking, thighs tensing, head tossing backwards so fiercely that his hat wobbles.

"S'at good, my Alice?" He grins at her, and it is sharp and needful and pleased with the pleasant torture he is inflicting on her body. "Is it, luv?"

"_Yes_," she practically sobs, before ripping one hand out of his hair, curling her fingers into a fist so she can bite at her knuckles, a desperate attempt to stifle the noises escaping her throat. That, Tarrant decides quickly, _won't do_. He wants to hear her, wants to drive her to the point that she doesn't _care_ if she's loud; he pulls his hand back, aligns another finger, and rather roughly pushes them both back inside. She is tight, _impossibly_ tight; but he sets a fast, hard pace that will ensure it will be easier to fit rather _larger_ bits when the time comes. She chokes on whatever noises she sounds she's trying to silence, drops her hand to cling to the arm of the chair as her body curls and curves and ripples.

"Oh – _oh_ -" She gasps brokenly for air, for a voice to speak with, and Tarrant is positive that it is the most beautiful sound he has ever, ever heard. "I – _Tarrant_ – I'm – _help me_!"

"S'righ'," he promises her, dropping his head, fluttering kisses over her quaking thighs and trembling stomach. "S'righ', my Alice."

Her climax blindsides Tarrant, and it is highly apparent that it does even _more_ then that to Alice. It is there, suddenly, with little warning, and she is _screaming_, neck taunt, head thrown back, nearly vibrating under the influence of the rapid, tide-like press and pull of his fingers in her body. She tightens around him _hard_, still screaming, his name broken amid the shrieks.

"Alice, Alice, _Alice_," he chants breathlessly, mindlessly, against her flesh, before he tugs his hand back and takes a firm grip on either of her thighs. Again his head lowers completely, mouth opening over her wet sex. He nearly sobs as he drinks her completion, lapping it up like spilt cream or dribbled tea. She jerks and writhes under his tongue, keens when his teeth find her clit and grips it between them, slashing his tongue frantically against it until she is shuddering again. She drops a hand, claws at his bare shoulder, the back of his neck; she tugs at his hair, and it is _sweet_.

He rests his head on her thigh after a time, allowing her to drop forward, arms draped on his shoulders, panting above him, trembling from curly hair to toenails. He is, he finds, almost absurdly pleased with himself. Several years out of that sort of game, and yet he'd managed to turn his Alice into a boneless, breathless, quivering lump of sensitive flesh and pleasant little hums and sighs. Peering at up her with one eye, he is firmly convinced that there is no better sight in the world Alice flushed from love, slick with sweat, with his hat at a decidedly rakish angle on her disheveled head.


End file.
